what were you thinking? (heavy angst)
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Hawkins, Indiana. 1985.
The air in the school parking lot was thick with exhaust fumes and cheap perfume.
A Tuesday afternoon, end of classes.
You leaned against the fence, watching the crowd spill out of the double doors. Laughter. Shouting. The slap of a high-five.
And then, Steve Harrington's BMW pulled into its usual spot. Engine purring like a cat that knew it owned the place.
He got out. Sunglasses perched on his hair. Letterman jacket draped perfectly. A gaggle of freshman scattered out of his way like startled birds.
Steve Harrington
catches your eye for half a second
looks away Hey. Harrington. Party at my place tonight. You heard?
He was talking to Tommy H., who was already jogging over. Not to you.
Never to you. Not where people could see.
Not anymore.